


adam parrish is in love (or, you can take the boy out of the south)

by heyfightme



Series: adam parrish is a college man (or, excelsior) [1]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M, no one knows what to make of ronan, obligatory adam goes to college
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-08 00:54:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6832276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyfightme/pseuds/heyfightme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Alright Parrish, I yield. What is it, then? You miss the Daisy Dukes and shitkicker boots on those cowgirls back home?”<br/>“I’m from Virginia, not Texas. Not a lot of cow-anybodies.”<br/>“I refuse to believe you don’t know anyone who lives on a farm.”<br/>Parrish rolls his eyes hard enough to shake the earth.<br/>“Stewart, of course I know somebody who lives on a farm. Just no cow-people. There’s a difference.”</p><p>---</p><p>Adam is in college. He has a roommate. Adam's Virginian accent has gotten him curious. Also, Ronan comes to visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	adam parrish is in love (or, you can take the boy out of the south)

 

Really, the only reason why Chet was so _interested_ was because new roommate was so _nonchalant_ about the whole thing. It wasn’t even like he was keeping a secret. He was answering Chet’s questions, like any polite human being would. He always used the same tone of voice, pleasant and bright with a slight lilt on the vowels.

 

The lilt was it, really. The thing that clued Chet in. Because when Adam Parrish raised his hand in class, or when he ordered for them at the campus bar using that inexplicably good fake ID (coke for Parrish, beer for everyone else), he clipped his vowels and blocked every word off at the end, each one neatly separated like fence posts. But when Chet asked him, innocently and without agenda, if he had a girlfriend, Adam Parrish replied, “Naw, na-ht ay-us su-huch.”

 

Maybe that was an exaggeration, but to Chet’s East Coast ears, Parrish may as well have sprouted a piece of wheat from his mouth and been sporting denim coveralls. The fact that Parrish stayed head bowed over his History textbook, pen scratching across his notes, only made Chet raise his eyebrows higher. It was the distraction, surely. Not the question. Just the fact that Parrish was preoccupied, not paying attention, absorbed by a case study on some lawyer dude named Herb Donaldson. Mind in two places, it’s no wonder his voice decided to go full Kevin Spacey in ‘House of Cards.’

 

Shit, Chet needs to catch up on that show.

 

\---

 

It happens again at breakfast. They’d met up with Branley and Stewart, their across-the-hall-neighbours, all of them with dining trays overloaded with protein and carbohydrates. Parrish guzzles coffee with an ease that makes it seem like he’s drinking at a normal pace. Chet is subtly impressed.

 

“Just quietly, though, I’m struggling to tell the girls apart here. All those leggings and riding boots. The North Face jackets. It’s so East Coast.” The sleeves of Branley’s crewneck sweatshirt are pushed up to expose deeply brown forearms and a weathered hemp bracelet.

“Because those SoCal surfer _babes_ are all special and unique snowflakes, _dude_?” Stewart, on the other hand, has the sharpest side part outside of 1963.

“Polo shirt. Polo shirt. Polo shirt,” Parrish interjects, pointing his knife at a few brightly gleaming sophomores loading their trays with juice containers. “Cargo shorts, cargo shorts, _cargo shorts_.” The final stab of the knife is directed across the table at Stewart. He has the carefully cultivated self control not to look affronted, politician smile seeping on to his face.

“Alright Parrish, I yield. What is it, then? You miss the Daisy Dukes and shitkicker boots on those cowgirls back home?”

“I’m from Virginia, not Texas. Not a lot of cow-anybodies.”

“I refuse to believe you don’t know anyone who lives on a farm.”

Parrish rolls his eyes hard enough to shake the earth.

“Stewart, of course I know _somebody_ who lives on a farm. Just no cow-people. There’s a difference.”

 

Chet sits up straighter in his chair. Branley pauses with his fork, overflowing with scrambled eggs, halfway to his mouth. Stewart’s brow wrinkles with guarded confusion. Parrish resumes shovelling pieces of hash brown into his mouth.

 

Because what Chet had heard – what they had _all_ heard, he was sure of it now – was close to ridiculous. It was a broadening of vowels, drawing _course_ in to _cahw-hus_ and _farm_ into _fah-harm_. Some consonants and syllables had been drop-kicked into the ether, turning _just_ into _jus’_ and _difference_ into _diff’rence_.

 

Stewart’s eyes slide to Chet, his mouth slowly widening, words clearly about to start coming out. Chet shakes his head minutely and vigorously.

“So is anyone going to go to that Delta-Kap party on Thursday?”

 

Witnessing three separate divorces at close range has made Chet a pro at changing the subject.

 

\---

 

Swiping his ID at his dorm door always makes Chet feel like a spy of some kind. But when it flashes red three times before green-lighting him through, it stings a little bit.

 

“— coming to visit in a couple weeks’ time. I said to come after finals, but that was like telling bones to come back to life.”

 

There is a tinny, digitised snort in response. Parrish sits on the floor, dinged rental laptop resting on crossed legs, grinning lazily down at the screen.

 

The lilt was back.

 

“Oh, I see. Very clever. You’re lucky Gansey didn’t hear that, he’d be _so_ disappointed in you.”

 

It was a _girl_! A girl who also had a lilt! Chet busies himself in emptying his backpack onto his bed to hide the manic grin that was stretching his face. This was going to be good for at least six months’ worth of gentle, comradely roommate ribbing.

 

“Where is he?”

 

Chet’s grin melts away. The lilt. It was like fucking Bigfoot, popping up when Chet was least prepared and then running off again to God-knows-where.

 

The girl in the computer makes some reply that includes the words “pig,” “Razzles,” “Henry,” “parking fine,” and “Madonna,” but not in any order that is legible to Chet. Whatever it does mean makes Parrish sigh good-naturedly.

 

A crash sounds from the computer speakers, and a voice shouts _“Jane”_ while another whines _“Blue,”_ and the girl mutters “holy hell.”

“Sorry, Adam. Give my love to Opal, will you?”

Parrish barks a laugh, a single shout that is met with a peal of giggles from the screen.

“Real subtle, Blue. I’ll tell them _both_ , alright?”

_Awl-raht?_

“You do that, college boy.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The girl’s bells of laughter sound again, Adam chuckles in response, then clicks a few times and snaps the laptop closed.

 

He looks up at Chet, who had been staring at him, mouth thin, holding a sock in one hand and a pair of headphones in the other. Parrish taps the laptop.

 

“My friend Blue, from back home. She’s roadtripping with her boyfriend and – uh. Another guy from Henrietta. Just about ready to murder them both.” He rolls his eyes, like Chet’s in on the joke, and hauls himself to his feet.

 

“Oh, sure. Yeah. Who’s Opal?” Chill out, Chet. At least _try_ not to sound too curious, _jeez_.

 

“Huh.” Parrish pauses, midway through the action of zipping the laptop case. “You know what, I’m going to have to ask for the answer to that myself.” He throws a good-natured smile at Chet, and resumes securing his laptop as though his voice hadn’t just taken a trip through a rodeo.

 

He hoists the laptop bag over his shoulder, slides his phone in to his pocket, and says, “I’m going to study at Atticus. You want me to bring you back a cap?”

 

Chet manages to shake his head, say “Nah, bro,” and school a grin on to his face, despite his hand curling into a triumphant fist. It pumps violently and involuntarily in the air as soon as the door clicks shut.

 

Adam Parrish is in love, and even _talking_ about Opal turns him in to a bona fide hillbilly.

 

\---

 

“It’s probably some fucking Southern witch chick.”

Branley scoffs, but Chet feels himself nodding along with Stewart.

“He was talking to a girl named _Blue_. They’re probably all part of some voodoo cult.”

“Or they’re just nicknames. Didn’t you also say that one guy was called Gansey? What the fuck kind of name is that?”

“Says the guy named _Branley_ ,” Chet drawls back.

 

Stewart had gone still.

“Did you say _Gansey_? Like, _Senator Gansey_?”

“I don’t know, maybe? Who cares? The point is, Parrish is completely whipped by some chick called Opal, and the best part is, he said she’s coming to visit in a few weeks, which means we’ll get to hear him talk like a hick _for seven whole damn days_.”

The other two grin back at him. It was something, really, the idea of getting to see calm-and-controlled Adam Parrish totally lose his cool.

 

“What are you idiots grinning about?”

Parrish lowers himself onto the sofa next to Stewart, sliding a precariously full cup of iced tea on to the coffee table next to the other three’s cappuccinos.

“Iced tea, Parrish? What are you, an English major?” Guffaws all round.

“ _Sweet_ tea, you damn Yankees. I had a craving.” He leans over to suck a huge mouthful through the straw, and makes a face. “Ugh. Even the stuff at Nino’s wasn’t this bad.”

Chet takes the bait.

“Nino’s – is that where you go with Opal?”

Parrish gives him a quizzical look over the top of his glass, and answers slowly.

“No, that would be weird.”

He seems unaware that he’d said anything they wouldn’t understand. He’s now holding his tea, jostling the straw about in the ice. Branley coughs.

“Oh! I’ve been meaning to ask you, Chet – d’you mind if they come visit in a couple weeks? Wouldn’t stay more than a week, at most, but I don’t want to make ‘em get a hotel.”

The three exchange a look. Branley takes one for the team.

“ _Them?_ ”

“Yeah. I mean, I have an air mattress for Opal. She’s a tiny thing though, she won’t take up much space.”

Stewart was staring at Parrish like he’d sprouted antlers.

“ _Who --?_ ”

“—no problem, Parrish. Mi casa es su casa. Literally.” Chet cuts across Stewart’s outburst, feeling like he’s averting disaster. Apparently, Opal is the kind of girlfriend that sleeps on an air mattress. The kind of girlfriend that comes in twos. The kind of girlfriend that Chet feels like he has to see to believe.

“Honestly, I’m kind of excited for y’all to meet them. We should go for pizza together or something.”

 

He downs the rest of his iced – no, _sweet_ tea, swipes a thumb across his lips and pushes himself to his feet.

“Later, gents.”

 

He slopes out the door with laptop bag swinging and hands stuffed in his pockets, leaving Stewart to turn to Branley and mouth incredulously, _“y’all_?”

 

\---

 

Two weeks later and Parrish is visibly antsy. Where Adam Parrish was usually a stoic studier who would give a Buddhist monk a run for their… incense, or whatever, _this_ Adam Parrish taps out punishing rhythms with his pen against the spines of books. His blunt fingernails scratch at the frays in his jeans until they turn in to holes. And, possibly worst of all, his headphones blare with a relentless beat from some shitfuck awful electronic crap.

 

Chet was going to have a heart attack just from watching him.

 

“So, buddy. When does Opal get here?” He prefaced the question with a tap on the shoulder, giving Parrish time to dislodge one of his earbuds, which he did before clicking his tongue and removing the other one. What Chet gets in return for the question is a singled raised eyebrow.

“Tomorrow night.” Pause. Parrish swivels around in his chair. “Why do you keep asking me about her?”

Chet could feel the heat climbing out from the neck of his college hoodie, red rising up in his face. _Busted_.

“Oh, you know bro. Just, she’s your – she’s your _whatever_ , and you know. I want to meet her.”

Parrish sighs.

“Look, Chet, I know it’s kind of weird. I’m sorry she has to come at all, but she can’t be left alone and freaking Declan can’t take her this week. I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”

 

Chet feels himself doing a passable imitation of a goldfish. Kind of weird? Can’t be left alone? Freaking Declan? _What the fuck?_ What actually comes out of his mouth is:

“Bro, it’s not even a problem. Don’t sweat it.”

 

Parrish smiles quickly, once, and slots his earbuds back in.

Chet gapes at the back of his head.

 

\---

 

Fingers drumming on the table, Parrish sits at the barest edge of the booth. Chet is honestly surprised he doesn’t crash to the floor every time he turns around in his seat – which is, by the way, every single damn time the door of the pizza place opens. Being a Friday night, that’s pretty fucking often.

 

Branley chooses to be the voice of reason.

“Parrish, why don’t you just call?”

He gets a humourless laugh in response.

“Yeah, good one Bran.”

The other three exchange bewildered looks.

 

Then the door crashes open. Actually crashes – the little bell it usually knocks in to doesn’t even have a chance to ring. Parrish straightens and whips around in his seat like a bloodhound. Chet has never seen _anyone_ so alert, and he’d been friends with an Adderall dealer in high school.

 

The guy who had near flung the door off its hinges was – well. Chet liked to think himself a pretty non-judgemental guy, and more than that, someone who didn’t let appearances decide whether he spoke to someone or not. That said, if Chet saw this guy coming towards him, he would be heading the other way. A quick glance to Branley and Stewart told him they were thinking the same thing.

 

In a sea of polo shirts and cargo shorts, this guy was wearing a black tank that bore several suspicious marks, and a pair of jeans covered in a similar level of grime. His boots were large, his head was shaved, and his arms were covered in tattoos. At the end of one of those arms is a hand. A hand that is holding _someone else’s hand_.

 

Behind this bar-fight magnet is something that gives the slight impression of a girl – large eyes, blonde hair, spindly legs. Before Chet can get a real look, however, the guy and his tiny companion are making a beeline for their table. Chet feels Stewart and Branley tense on either side of him. Parrish, still twisted in his seat, watches their progress across the restaurant.

 

The guy stomps to a stop in front of Adam, and Chet resists the urge to reach out and pull his roommate under the table, away from harm.

 

The guy glares down at Adam.

“What the fuck kind of directions were they, Parrish?”

Unbelievably, Adam sighs, head flopping to the side as a sign of what Chet was sure was the Patented Parrish Eye-roll.

“If you’d just pick up your damn phone like a normal human being, I could have talked you through it. Or, you know, GPS.”

“Fuck Siri.”

 

Stewart takes the opportunity to man up and clear his throat. While this gets the guy glaring at _him_ instead of Parrish, it also gains Parrish’s attention. Stewart pointedly avoids eye contact with the guy.

“Parrish, sorry, but – who is this guy?”

Parrish raises one eyebrow, just as the guy growls “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“This is Ronan?” Parrish says it like a question. Like it should have been obvious. He says it with long vowels.

Branley snorts.

“Yeah, because we know _exactly_ who that is.”

“Where’s Opal?” Chet hears himself say. But he couldn’t have said it, really. Because he’s still trying to process the fact that _Adam Parrish_ – plaid-shirt-and-chino-wearing-Adam-Parrish, who drinks _sweet_ tea and studies like the end of the world is coming – knows the kind of guy who probably does wheelies on main streets and punches people he doesn’t know.

Parrish’s other eyebrow joins the first. He points at the thing trailing behind the guy. God, he’s tall. Like, really tall.

“She’s right there, Chet. You happy?”

 

“Parrish, sorry again, but – _who_ is Ronan?” Branley leans forward in his seat towards Parrish, arms still tucked securely underneath the table. Stewart keeps his eyes trained on the guy, the way someone might watch a dog with a muzzle strapped to its face. Chet flicks his eyes from the girl – Opal, apparently – to Parrish, to _Ronan_ , and back again.

“What the fuck, Parrish?”

Parrish’s head whips around again. Chet doesn’t get it. The guy doesn’t just sound angry, like the other times he’d swore. He sounds _hurt_.

“No, Ronan, they know who you are.” He turns back to the table. “You know who he is! I’ve told you about Ronan.”

 

The three exchange glances, compare memories by sight.

“Parrish. You’d never mentioned anyone called Ronan before.” Stewart says it like an accusation, which Chet feels is a bit mean, based on the way that Parrish’s face just _falls_. The guy – _Ronan_ – shifts his weight, drops the girl’s hand and folds his arms. The girl latches on to his leg.

“Get off,” he snarls down at her, but not with a lot of force.

 

Parrish is still looking between the three at the table with horror etched on his face. It’s like they’ve told him he murdered someone in his sleep. Slowly, he scrunches his eyes shut and hangs his head. His hand, which had until now been lying flat on the table, makes a fist. He drags his knuckles to the edge of the table. Just as slowly, he rises and turns. Standing in front of angry Ronan, he comes up to just below his eyes – eyes which are staring pointedly at a space above Parrish’s head.

“Lynch. Look at me.”

The eyes slide down. It strikes Chet that they’re standing very close together.

“I could have _sworn_ I said something. I feel like I’ve done nothing _but_ say something.”

“If you wanted to be a pussy about it Parrish, you could have just –“

“ _Stop_. Don’t be an asshole. And don’t use that word. I can feel Blue flicking her switchblade from here.”

Branley leans over to whisper in Chet’s ear, “What’s happening right now?”

But before Chet can reply with a hushed “I don’t know,” Parrish has grabbed both sides of Ronan’s face and _surged_ up in to him. The guy’s arms unwrap from around his chest and grasp Parrish’s hips, pulling him closer. Chet can only see the back of Parrish’s head, but from the undignified noise that Stewart makes, he supposes that their mouths are locked and there is a significant amount of tongue involved.

 

Right, then.

 

Chet’s starting to feel like they’re all intruding, what with the way they keep having to interrupt and apologise. He’s the one to bite the bullet this time.

“Um, Parrish? Adam? Sorry, can we just…” He trails off, not even sure what he wants. It’s enough, though. Parrish dislodges himself from Ronan’s face, turning to take in the table with a placid expression. Ronan glowers behind him, one hand shoved in his pocket and the other clutching Opal’s hand.

“Ronan’s my boyfriend,” says Parrish, earnest and plain. Behind him, Ronan mutters “Fuck off, Parrish.”

“And Opal is…?” Chet trails off again. He’s getting good at that.

“Ronan’s – ah. Daughter?” He says it like a question again, although this time he quirks his head around like he’s seeking actual clarification. Again, Ronan says “Fuck off, Parrish,” though this time it’s peppered with kind of a fond exasperation. It’s followed by a murmured “ _Ward._ ”

“Okay,” Parrish continues firmly. “Opal is Ronan’s ward.”

“Like Bruce Wayne?” blurts out Branley. Ice blue eyes shoot him right through.

“Seeing as you don’t know a fuckin’ thing about me, I’m going to ignore _that_ ,” Ronan hisses.

 

“Ronan, shut up. Sit down. There’s a pizza coming.” Parrish slides in to the booth, pushing Stewart up against Chet up against Branley. Ronan throws himself down next to Parrish, pulling Opal in after him. He slings one arm over the back of Parrish’s seat, and uses his other hand to snatch a napkin away from Opal without looking.

“Don’t eat anything except for pizza,” he growls. She retracts her hands, but Chet can see her happily bobbing in her seat, like she’s swinging her legs.

 

There’s a distinct field of tension around the table that Parrish and Ronan seem to be impervious to. Ronan’s expression has relaxed into something more neutral as his fingers, dangling down from the backrest, drum a beat on Parrish’s shoulder. Parrish, loose and calm-looking, allows this to happen.

 

“I don’t understand,” Chet confesses, voice small. Ronan sighs, sounding much put-upon, head falling back onto the backrest. Parrish smiles indulgently, but it’s tight on his face. His left arm seems to shift – Chet suspects he’s holding Ronan’s leg under the table.

“I think I have an apology to make. Y’all probably think I’ve been disingenuous with you,” Parrish starts, all formality made easy by that Southern lilt. Ronan’s head rolls across the rest, like he’s gravitating towards the sound. _Oh_ , Chet thinks. _That’s what it is._

“I wasn’t meanin’ to lie, and I don’t want anyone thinkin’ that I’m hidin’ anythin’,” he continues, the South swallowing his ‘g’s. “I just thought I’d made myself clear. Obviously, I was… wrong.”

Ronan’s head snaps up from where it’s lolling.

“Sorry, what was that?” His smile is a knife.

“I was _wrong_ ,” Parrish says again, clearly for Ronan’s benefit, but his eyes are still trained on Chet. Ronan crows a laugh. Parrish rolls his eyes at Chet, again like they’re in on the same joke.

 

“He’s your boyfriend?” asks Stewart, accusation splashing off his words. He’s regarded coolly by both Ronan and Adam, Ronan’s gaze tinged with venom, Adam’s with amusement.

“That is what we’re calling it, yes,” replies Adam.

“But, Parrish – Adam. He’s such a —” Stewart stops himself, seeming to realise that there’s no good way to end that sentence. Regardless, _a brute_ , _a thug_ , _a snake_ , _a gangster_ , _an asshole_ all fill the silence. Ronan smirks at him across the table.

“Parrish, who is this Carruthers motherfucker?”

Stewart’s perfectly-schooled expression drips off his face, and his mouth opens to retort –

 

\-- just as their extra-large pizza is plonked into the centre of the table.

Opal’s spidery hand snatches out and grabs a slice, which disappears into her mouth just as quickly.

“Watch your manners,” Ronan snaps, and that seems like a cue for the rest of them to start eating.

 

\---

 

Chet’s not going to lie, it’s weird. Especially when they get back to the dorm and Opal is under the blanket on the air mattress, and her rubber boots have been haphazardly dumped near the door, but Chet _swears_ she was still wearing them when she got in bed. Especially when Ronan bends over her to tuck the blankets around her splintery form with a gruff kind of tenderness that is honestly just confusing. Especially when he shucks his jeans off and throws himself violently onto Adam’s bed as though he’s done this every night for forever.

 

Parrish is carefully folding his own jeans and placing them in the closet, same as he always does. His t-shirt follows suit, same as it always does. He pads across to the bed, pausing to bend down and place a gentle hand on Opal’s head, before creaking to his feet again.

 

Chet coughs. It’s weird.

“Uh… Par— Adam. Do you… uh. Do you guys want some… privacy?” Chet’s not sure how to do this. He’s never asked anyone if they wanted him to leave so they can fuck their boyfriend. But then again, Opal’s on the floor. It’s weird.

 

Parrish just snorts.

“No. Why?” He stands there, arms loosely by his sides, chest bare and boxers slung low on his hips. It’s a sight Chet’s more than familiar with, but tonight it feels like he’s intruding somehow. Like this isn’t _his_ room any more. Even more so when the lump on the bed that is Ronan Lynch grumbles “Parrish, come _on_ ,” and blindly reaches out a hand that grabs on to the leg of Adam’s shorts.

 

It’s weird.

 

Unable to stop himself, Chet mumbles “Why does your boyfriend call you Parrish?” There’s a noise from the lump that sounds a lot like a laugh, if a pit-bull were to laugh. Parrish just lightly bats away the hand that’s clutching his shorts, and slides fluidly into his bed, same as he always does. He reaches up to flick off the lamp, same as he always does, and the last thing Chet sees before the room goes black is the Ronan-lump unfurling completely and glomming itself onto Parrish’s back. Huh.

 

It’s weird.

 

\---

 

At some time after 3:00 a.m., Chet’s eyes snap open. Surely not. It couldn’t be.

 

He rolls over to face Adam’s bed, and can just make out a thatch of dusty hair, and a large foot thrust out from under the covers.

 

“Adam,” he whispers across the void. There’s movement on the floor; Opal’s huge pale eyes watch him from between her blanket and skullcap. He ignores her. “ _Adam_.” More urgent this time. There is a loud groan in response. Adam’s voice is muffled when he speaks.

 

“I swear to God Chet, this had better be the second coming of Christ you’re tellin’ me ‘bout.”

“Watch yourself, Parrish,” grumbles out from the same tangle of sheets and limbs. Interesting.

 

“No, but Adam – _Adam_ , you said you know someone who lives on a farm!”

 

The tangle groans again, extra loud, with two voices.

“Go back to _sleep_ , Chet.” Definitely Adam.

 

“But, Adam! Is it Ronan? Adam – _does Ronan live on a farm?_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> There may be more in this vein because I'm a self-indulgent asshole.
> 
> Also, Adam's now a plaid-shirt-and-chino guy because you know that if any of these idiots had the potential to go Full Hipster, it's him. Vintage Coca-Cola shirt, please.
> 
> EDIT: This fic was written in mid-2016, and contains a joke that mentions Kevin Spacey's accent. I will likely change it when I can think of an alternative, but for now consider this a content warning.


End file.
